


and i dream about home

by invalidinthewilds



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Antisemitism, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Jewish Pines Family, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, in case you can't tell i like ANGST, mostly Pre-Portal, this gets intense consider yourself warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6921193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invalidinthewilds/pseuds/invalidinthewilds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here’s what you remember:</p>
<p>The tug of a sail. The calmness that can suddenly descend over the waves. A long boardwalk filled with splinters.</p>
<p>A rainy day. A metal box. A car with scratches and nicks and a whole religion in between.</p>
<p>An explosion, both physically and mentally. A world you think you understand. People you think you do as well. Promises.</p>
<p>A time when you look in other people’s eyes and you just <i>know</i>.</p>
<p>You can trust them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i dream about home

Here’s what you remember:

The tug of a sail. The calmness that can suddenly descend over the waves. A long boardwalk filled with splinters.

A rainy day. A metal box. A car with scratches and nicks and a whole religion in between.

An explosion, both physically and mentally. A world you think you understand. People you think you do as well. Promises.

A time when you look in other people’s eyes and you just _know_.

You can trust them.

***  


Your brother’s eyes are brown, lighting up just a shade brighter when you walk into a room. You and he a team; never one complete without the other though the two of you couldn’t be more different. He’s always smiling and laughing and pushing and shoving while you hang back with your logical concerns and facts and dislike of anything involving physical activity.

He’s trustworthy.

Ma always says how funny it is, like you were opposites even when you were being born. You took hours upon hours to be born, so unsure of this world you were about to become a part of. Stanley was born just moments afterwards, hardly a care in the world, hardly even stopping to breathe.

You weren’t supposed to be born at all—nevermind be twins—but Ma never mentions that.

It’s your opposite way that lets you take care of each other though. Whenever Stanley’s on the verge of failing one of his classes, you let him copy your notes and try again to teach the concept though it always evades him. And when the other kids stare and whisper at your strange six-fingered hands, when people look at you and your brother and your whole family and spit at your feet and yell words at you that you don’t understand, you won’t understand till you look at books that talk about the Holocaust and prejudice and antisemitism, your brother just lightly punches your shoulder and says, “Hey. Poindexter. Quit listening to those losers all the time.”

You and him, everywhere you go. You know that’s the way it’s always going to be.

It’s only distantly that you can hear the ocean calling, that you can hear endless, _I need to get out of here, I need to get out of here NOW_ thrumming through your head.

***

It’s an accident but it usually is. You and Stanley were roughhousing in the pawnshop—which to be fair you probably shouldn’t have been doing in the first place—when Stanley’s shoulder hits the edge of one of the shelves and down falls the vase.

“Oh no…” Stanley crouches, desperately trying to fit the pieces together, like they’ll just click in place once he does.

This is bad. This is really, really bad. This vase was a miraculous find, a complete accident. Pa’s been saying that it could be worth hundreds, maybe even a thousand, dollars and now it’s nothing but a useless wreck.

He’s not going to be happy. And Ma’s at the grocery so she can’t intercede.

As if on cue, there’s a thump upstairs and then, “What the hell are you boys doing down there?”

He’s not waiting for an answer, he’s already clomping down the stairs and then he’ll see Stanley with the broken pieces and then…

“What do we do, Stanford?”

It scares you, the way he says your first name without any humor or nickname. It scares you more to see the tears springing up in his eyes. You’re thirteen and you’ve only ever seen him cry twice.

His hands are shaking and you know what you’re going to do just as you say it, “Hide behind the counter.”

“What? But then Pa’ll—”

“Just do it, Stanley!”

He dashes behind just as your father descends the last few steps, as you kneel and pick up one of the broken shards.

“Stanford?” There’s surprise in your father’s voice. You’re not exactly the troublemaker of the family.

“I’m sorry! I tripped and bumped into the shelf and the vase fell and I’m sorry and—”

Something hits you hard and you fall to the floor, glasses skittering away, blood gushing from your nose. It doesn’t take a genius like you to figure out it was your father.

“You’re sorry, Stanford? You’re _sorry_? Do you know how much that vase cost? Do you know how much we needed that damn money?”

You just duck your head. You know there’s nothing that can stop your father’s wrath now.

“I’ll make you sorry!”

He yanks you up by the collar of your shirt and you try to stop the panicky feeling building in your chest.  


***

“Hate this,” Stanley mumbles. “I hate _him_.”

He’s sitting on the floor of your room while you’re lying on your bed, trying to forget the burning on your back where your father used the iron, just enough to hurt, not enough to send you to the hospital. There’s no way you’ll be able to sleep on anything but your stomach for the next week.

At least your nose has stopped bleeding.

Stanley can’t look at you, his attention focused instead on the metal box he holds in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again, quieter this time.

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I’m the one who should have gotten punished instead of you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No, Stanford. It kind of fucking does.”

He’s nervously flipping the box open and shut. Open and shut. You can see the glass and pebbles and trash he’s been picking up and putting in this box from Glass Shard Beach like it actually means something to him, like it’s the most important owns.

It probably is.

“I just…it’s just because…when Pa gets like that…”

He trails off but you get it, you really do. It’s not the physical pain that Stanley fears. No, you remember when you were eleven and he fell out of that tree in school, broke his leg clean in half, but he just laid there with a wince and half-smile as an ambulance was called.

But this is different. When Pa decides you need to be punished you never can tell what he’s going to dish out or how long it’s going to last. It’s scary for you but you can take it, it’s not like you get in trouble very often. But for someone like Stanley who’s always being clumsy, who always seems to make mistakes that bring the ire of adults, it’s petrifying. The few times you’ve seen him break down, hysterical and sobbing, have been when Pa has gone just a little bit too far.

You’d rather get punished yourself than see Stanley so upset ever again.

Funny how your father didn’t even question you about that. How you were alone when the vase broke even though the two of you are inseparable. How you were so willing to take the blame for someone who’d just done something so awful. How you’re not usually so clumsy.

He didn’t even care.

“I’m sorry,” Stanley says again.

“Would you please stop saying that? I’m really starting to hate that word.”

“Well what the hell am I supposed to say?”

“ _Nothing_. Just…can we just forget this happened?”

Something inside of Stanley snaps at this. Before you can even blink he’s slamming that box of his against the wall, mangling its shape and spewing the contents onto the floor.

You’re so shocked you can’t even say anything. Your heart thumps painfully, on watch for the telltale signs that your father will appear and punish you again which you _can’t take, not anymore today_. But miraculously he doesn’t hear or maybe has stepped out for a moment or finally decided that you’ve had enough for one day.

But even so, it scares you. Stanley’s sudden surge of anger and violence. It’s almost like…like when…

No. You can’t even think it.

But he thinks it.

“Holy Moses!” He drops to the ground, staring at the wreckage he’s caused, before his head crumples in hands. “I’m never having kids.”

It’s such a random thing to say you almost start laughing even though the situation is entirely inappropriate. Instead, “Why would you say that?”

“Because I’ll hurt them, just like Pa does. Either you’re getting hurt or else you’re the one hurting someone else.”

“No. No, that’s not true.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, we don’t hurt each other and we’re not getting hurt either. Pa makes you think that but it isn’t true. Other people don’t act this way and when we’re older and you get married and you have kids, I’m sure you’ll be a great father. You’ll be nothing like Pa.”

Stanley’s silent for a long time after that and you think maybe he didn’t really like what you had to say. You’re not really used to comforting your brother instead of vice versa. But then he looks up and you realize he’s crying, crying for only the third time in his life.

“Thanks, Stanford.”

You don’t really talk much after that.

***

You don’t hate your father like Stanley does but that doesn’t mean you don’t hate at all.

You just hate Them.

You hate the doctors. The ones who check you again and again when your father “accidentally” goes overboard in your punishment. You hate how they take your father’s word that you’re just clumsy or that there’re just some vicious kids at school. You look at them so pleadingly and they just smile back and tell you everything’s going to be okay when it’s clearly not. They should be able to tell something’s wrong by the way you’re so quiet, by how many times you go to the ER, by the way you’re so nervous around your father and cling to your brother instead. How can they not tell that something’s _wrong_?

You hate your teachers. The way they just smile and ask if everything’s okay at home and how they only look halfway interested when you say it is. How they never ask again, like they’ve done their duty as a good Christian servant just inquiring once when they at least have some idea of what’s going on, unlike the doctors.

Maybe it makes you a bad person but you kind of hate your mother too. She lets you get hit and makes attempts only to lessen the blows, not end them. She has to know what’s going on when she isn’t around but she doesn’t even comment on it. How can she not leave this man who’s hurting you all instead of letting this happen again and again and again like it’s the most normal thing in the world?

But you know that’s not why you really hate her. What hurts you more, though you’ll never ever say it, is how much she dotes on Stanley, how much she hugs him and asks him if he’s all right after Pa has punished him. You know why. It even makes sense. Stanley gets knocked around far more than you do. But that still doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Sometimes, on those days especially, you kind of even hate Stanley. Because at least he’s getting your parents’ attention, good and bad. And at least he gets people to hate or love him, have some sort of emotion towards him while you’re just stuck there, not getting smacked around but not getting any sympathy either. If you didn’t raise your hand during school attendance, you’re pretty sure nobody in the entire world would even know you exist.

Truth is, the person you hate the most is yourself. You hate how scared you are by your father’s words and heavy hand on your shoulder, “You realize, Stanford, that if you tell anyone I’m the one disciplining you, they’ll take you and your brother away. You’ll never come back here. You’ll never see your mother again. And don’t think you and your brother will stay together. No, they’ll split you apart. You’ll never see Stanley ever again either.”

That kills any plea you have for a teacher or doctor. Maybe you can’t really blame them for not noticing your pain when you’re so eager to pretend everything’s fine.

You’re selfish is what it is. You’d rather stay with Stanley than make sure he’s safe. You’ll think in later years, especially during your exile from this dimension, that maybe your separation later is a punishment for making him stay with Pa now.

You’re selfish enough that you’ll blame your mother for not holding you when the fact is that you flinch at anyone who tries to hug you or pat you on the shoulder, that even your own mother makes you wary, that you’ve ducked so many of her hugs and hair rufflings that eventually she’s just stopped trying.

You’re selfish enough that you hate how Stanley spends all his time with you just because you don’t have anyone else to spend it with and he knows it too.

You hate everyone and everything.

And yet there’s only one time that you hate your father, and it’s when you can see your terrified reflection on those glasses that he always wears.

***

There’s only one person who doesn’t make you flinch at their touch.

“One of these days, Sixer. This Stan O’ War will be done and then you and I are off to see the world!”

He’s got his arm slung around your shoulder, grinning like mad. And you’re grinning too because it’s only times like these that make you feel happy or safe or anything like a kid’s supposed to feel. Whenever you can you’re both tromping out to the beach, working on that hulk of a wreck, or else you’re exploring, filling endless notebooks with observations and discoveries and everything weird and wonderful just like you.

But you can still hear the ocean calling your name, it’s getting louder and louder with each successive wave. You’re starting to wonder whether anything can drown out the sounds of those waves.

***

You and Stanley work on the boat every single day except Saturday which is when Ma trundles you up with your best clothes and your yarmulkes and brings you out to synagogue.

You don’t really like synagogue because it’s long and boring and everyone in the neighborhood seems to hate you because you go there but you do it anyways because the only other option is waiting with your father who circles the block endlessly in the car. Anywhere seems better than being with your father.

Ma is nearly fervent with her belief. She fasts every Yom Kippur no matter what and she has Passover dinner with everything according to tradition (luckily Stanley’s that minute younger who has to ask “Why is this night different from all other nights?” instead of you). She even wanted you and Stanley to have a Bar Mitzvah but Pa put his foot down at that.

“We’re not spending money on a ceremony that means absolutely nothing so you can just forget about it.”

“Not _mean_ anything, Fil? How can it not mean anything when this ceremony is about our sons becoming men?”

“Just because you still believe that nonsense doesn’t mean I do and I refuse to spend money on this.”

On and on they went until you heard some crashes and a bang and you guess that convinced Ma because she never talked about it again.

***

It’s when you’re sixteen you tell Ma you don’t want to go to synagogue anymore.

The weather’s wicked, rain coming down in great slashes, the highway blurry through the rearview mirror of your family’s Cadillac which your brother will use as his home for the next twelve years but you don’t know about that now. You’re driving and Ma’s trying to teach you how while Stanley sits in the back, both of them talking and yelling and you can hardly concentrate on the road much less on what they’re saying. So when the conversation turns to religion you’re not exactly in the best mood.

“What do you mean you don’t _believe_ anymore?”

You’re trying to avoid the reasons she won’t understand, the lack of scientific evidence and logic and the like which speaks to you and nobody else. “If there’s someone watching over us then how come our life is so hard? How come we have so much suffering?”

“Everyone has suffering.”

“Well, they shouldn’t have to.”

This is probably not the best conversation to have while learning to drive a car. Your brother’s trying to catch your eye and shake his head but you ignore it.

Ma’s getting stressed too. She’s got a cigarette in her shaking hand she’s trying to light. A notorious chain smoker, she can’t smoke less than a pack on her best days, much less days like these. When you’re older and start getting interested in medicine, you’ll wonder at the miracle of how you and your brother were born at all.

She takes a drag. “I know you’re upset, honey. But you need time to think this over. Your faith, your identity, isn’t something that you just decide to throw away one day.”

“I have thought it through, _mother_ ,” you say through clenched teeth.

She gives you a look, and not a nice one either. No, you’ve seen this look before. It means you’ve screwed up in your inability to say the right words at the right times and have said something that is apparently incredibly offensive. It’s the kind of look that usually has her pacing the kitchen muttering about you and how you’re just like your Pa with Stanley trailing behind her going, “He didn’t mean it, Ma. You know how he is.”

“Don’t you use that tone with me, Stanford Filbrick Pines,” she says now. “I am your mother.”

“I am not using a _tone_.”

“No, that right there. _That_ is a tone.”

“Hey, guys,” Stanley’s nervously tapping his fingers on the front seat, “let’s, uh, let’s maybe talk about this at home. When we’re actually thinking about the _consequences of what we say_.” At this he glares at you but you still ignore him.

“Stanley’s using a tone, how come you’re not ragging on him?”

“Because Stanley is not deciding to throw away his religion.”

“Oh my _God_ , Ma, for the last time, I know what I’m doing!”

The car becomes dead silent and you realize that’s probably the most offensive thing you could’ve said at the moment. But still the anger’s bubbling underneath, building and building. Because Ma loves Stanley more than she’ll ever love you. Because all you ever do is wrong.

Ma mutters, just under her breath, “What do you know about anything? You’re only a child.”

And that’s what breaks you. “What do I know? What do I _know_? I sure know a hell of a lot more than you! At least I’m not a hypocrite. At least don’t chain smoke and pretend I’m a psychic and let my kids get the shit beaten out of them by my husband and say that just because I go to synagogue that I’m a good person!”

You’re going to get hell for this but for some reason it just feels so damn good to finally say.

But Ma doesn’t say anything. Instead she tries to open the car door.

“HEY!” You slam on the breaks so hard your head nearly goes through the steering wheel. She doesn’t even notice she’s nearly died jumping out of the car. “Hey, Ma. Ma!”

The other cars swerve and horns blare as she crosses the highway as fast as she can, rain soaking her figure within seconds.

Stanley flicks the back of your head. “Nice going, genius.”

You turn around, your wrath now focused on Stanley in a way that it never has been before. “Oh, was anything I said a lie, Stanley? Pray tell, are you going to pretend our mother is actually a good person just because she doesn’t hit you like Pa?”

He scowls. “Does it ever cross your brain, Poindexter, that she’s doing the best she can? Do you really think that Pa really only ever threatens you? She’s afraid. She’s worried the government’ll take us both away forever if she tells anyone what’s been happening. And the only way she copes with any of this is by going to synagogue. Shit, Stanford, for someone who’s so bright you can be incredibly thick-headed.”

He gets out of the car before you can so that you’re left completely alone in a car that was far too crowded moments earlier. Maybe even then there’re tremors to show how your relationship is going to disintegrate.

***

If it wasn’t for the fact that you and Stanley look nearly identical, you’d think you were adopted. You don’t understand your family and how they’re always looking for some way to cheat out everyone they find. They want money, you get it, they want a better life. So do you but you don’t want to pay for it by looking over your shoulder every day for the rest of your life.

Maybe that’s what inspires you to excel so well in your studies, beyond the _I want to get out of here, I need to get out of here_. You need to prove that you can excel separate from your family.

You’ve always won awards but you’ll still a little shocked at how far it goes during your Senior Year when they sit you and your parents down and tell you that you’re going places and could get into the best university in the country with all the work you’ve put in. It seems like something out of a dream or a fantasy; the idea that maybe you can really escape all this, the fact that your father’s _proud_ of you for once in your life.

Of course your mother has to spoil the moment, ask about Stan when all the attention is focused on you. Maybe she’s still trying to get back at you for those remarks made in the car two years earlier.

Stanley’s less thrilled than you’d like him to be too. He keeps talking about the Stan O’ War like that’s still an option, like it was ever feasibly an option. Sure when you were a kid you dreamed but you grew up quickly. And you need to get out of this place _now_ before those waves that keep crashing in your head get so loud that you decide to drop into the ocean and never resurface.

Stanley doesn’t understand how badly you need to leave this place. You’re not sure he ever will.

***

You’re not thinking after the science fair, after all your dreams get shattered once more. All you can do is focus your hate on Them all over again. The teachers who refuse to give you a second chance. Ma who favors Stan over you every day. And Stanley who cares far more about himself than he ever does about you.

You don’t intervene when Pa throws him out of the house. You think he deserves it. You think it’s about time he paid for that vase he broke all those years ago.

Ma comes out holding Shermie’s son, wailing his head off at the commotion. She doesn’t talk but gives you such a look once Stan’s out the door, you get the idea that she’s far more upset than that child ever will be.

You don’t think she ever forgives you.

***

Sherman’s nine years older than you and Stanley. But even though he lived nearly a decade in the house before you did and had this very room that you and Stanley still share, you hardly know anything about him and neither Ma or Pa mention anything beyond a passing, “Oh, he’s in New York now, you know?”

You only have vague memories of him since he left when you were seven. How he used to buy you and Stanley candy or tried to distract you both while Ma and Pa fought.

But then he was gone and he never visited or even wrote.

Until now. The month before graduation he appears like nothing’s changed, like ten years haven’t passed. He’s got a kid, some bright-eyed baby—a child he wants your family to watch for the next several weeks while he goes on vacation— but no wife. Maybe he’s told her too much about what your family is like.

“Where you living now, Shermie?” Ma’s fawning all over him, it looks like she used to have an old favorite. You look to see if Stanley’s jealous but he seems as interested in Sherman’s reply as Ma.

“Oh, still in New York. Lucy likes it there. And since I’ll be finishing my degree there, it seems just as well.” He turns to Stanley, still watching him intently. “What about you, Stanley? What’re you planning to do after graduation?”

Stanley shrugs his shoulders. “I dunno. I got a few plans that I’m thinking about.”

“The world’s not gonna let you think forever, Stanley,” Pa calls from where he sits across the room with the newspaper.

“I know that,” Stanley replies quickly. “I’m gonna figure something out.”

“And what’s going on with you, Sixer?” Sherman turns to you now, that nickname sounding like an insult from him. “Still studying all those nerdy books?”

You hate that smirk he’s wearing, like he knows something you don’t. Like he knows he jumped a sinking ship just in time.

You shove the food around on your plate and mutter, “I'm fine.”

“Well, he’s obviously gonna go into science. I mean, he’s won first place in every competition he’s been in since we were in kindergarten,” Stanley chips in. His brick of a head hasn’t realized that this stranger pretending to be Shermie is the last person you want to spill your guts to.

“Stanford at least knows what he’s doing, unlike the rest of you,” Pa says loudly from the corner again.

The room falls silent. You think Ma might say something, or even Sherman, but none of them do. They sit there, and let this judgement fall upon them.

Guilt. Even when you’ve done nothing wrong, all your father ever makes you feel is guilt.

It’s Stanley who speaks first, changing the topic completely, “Can I hold the baby?”

“I don’t know,” Sherman says. He’s still tense from Pa’s words but it’s clear that some of the uncertainty in his voice is towards a distrust of Stanley.

“Sherman…” Ma says with warning.

“Okay, fine. But you’d better not wake him up or else he’ll start wailing and he won’t ever stop.”

It’s surprising how gentle Stanley is, how careful, when he can destroy half the kitchen without even trying to. The baby wakes but doesn’t even cry, just seems curious at this person who looks familiar yet strange at the same time.

“Hey, there, sweetie. I’m Stanley Pines. I’m your uncle. I guess you could just call me Uncle Stan.”

Sherman rolls his eyes. “You do realize that the baby can’t understand a word you’re saying?”

“Maybe not. Maybe he can though.” He turns back to the baby. “Huh? Can you say ‘Uncle Stan’?”

“He’s only four months old.”

“Hey, Ford, you wanna hold the baby?”

“No,” you say quite certainly.

“Aw, come on. I’m sure he’s just waiting to meet his Uncle Ford.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.” And then without another word, the child is unceremoniously dumped in your arms.

You’re not exactly sure what to do seeing as you’ve never held a baby before but it doesn’t start crying. It stares at your hand, entranced by the fact that you have six fingers instead of the usual five.

“Well, I guess your six fingers were good for something,” Sherman quips and you try to keep the irritation off your face when Stanley interrupts.

“Hey, come on, it’s not like that. I’m sure he just knows you’re family, _Sixer_.”

It takes eighteen years to marvel at how easily your brother diffuses a situation without any effort. How the exact same nickname from your older brother isn’t even an insult when Stanley says it.

You almost tell him that then. That he’s not without talent. That he’s actually worth something.

But you don’t.

You’ll really wish you had.

***

“I don’t get it. You hate the fact that your two extra fingers make you different from other humans and yet your brother calling you ‘Sixer’ is a form of endearment?”

This. This is what Bill wants to talk about after going through your memories for the third time. Every single time you and him switch places, you both get a jolt of your memories. Things that you haven’t thought about for years—like that vase or holding Sherman’s son—feel like they happened just yesterday.

And this is what he’s curious about. At least he had the decency the first two times to only ask questions related to the portal.

You move your pawn. “It’s a human thing, Bill. You wouldn’t understand.”

He moves his rook. You’re losing terribly, but you always do against him. “I wouldn’t understand, Stanford? You forget, I was a muse to many before you. I understand how you all work. You also forget that when we switch forms, I can see and feel your memories just as well as you do. You’re angry at your brother yet you still miss him.”

You shift uncomfortably. Bill so far has been very helpful. Maybe he’s a little strange but he’s not harmful. Maybe he’s gone a little far this time, though.

“Bill, I’m not sure that any of this is your business.”

“It is my business because it’s slowing you down. We’re supposed to be laying down the framework for the portal already and yet here you are, still writing out the same algorithms again and again. You’re getting distracted, Stanford. You’re obsessing over your past. But why? Why? Do you really think your Ma and Pa are going to call you up and apologize for all those horrible years of your childhood? Do you really think Stanley’s going to show up one day and pay back all the damage he’s caused? They’ve moved on. They don’t _care_ , Stanford.”

You’ve never seen Bill like this before. You’d almost say he’s…angry yet you can’t deny the truth in his words.

He starts up again, slower again, more like his usual self. “Now. You have a chance to, well, change the world as we know it. Broaden the perspective of humanity. Bridge our worlds. This is your purpose and I’m here to help you. Let’s focus on the now, shall we?”

You can’t help but nod your head. Bill somehow always knows the right thing to say. “Okay, you’re right.”

“Right? Of course I’m right, Stanford! Or should I say, _Sixer_?”

He tries to mimic Stanley, yet his voice rings hollow, strange. You try to place the feeling it gives you, but it seems to just slip away from your mind.

***

Fiddleford is nervous about the portal. He doesn’t say it so much with words but you know from the way he’s so quiet these days, how he’s down in the basement before you even wake up just…watching it. Like at any moment it might turn on and incinerate everything in the room.

He doesn’t sleep well the times he does manage to climb up to bed, you can hear him muttering and tossing about all night.

This isn’t like him. You know it isn’t. He’s helped you chase down every monster conceivable, he’s stared down his own worst nightmare. You remember one time back in university when one of the kids in your class accidentally set themselves on fire (there’s a reason why Backupsmore wasn’t a top choice for grads). While everyone else had been understandably freaking out, Fiddleford got the fire extinguisher and used it with almost a cool nonchalance.

But that’s not what he’s like now, as you come downstairs to him banging around the kitchen, pulling things out and shoving them back in the drawers.

“Uh, Fidds?” Your voice feels unnaturally loud. Immediately his head pops up, eyes red from lack of sleep and deep black circling underneath. He can hardly look you in the eye, some negative emotion just underneath the surface that you’re having trouble placing. That more than anything else makes you push forward.

“We need to talk.”

“Fine. We’re talkin’.” There’s no sense of familiarity between you. No sense of anything but hostility.

You’re not really good at this emotion stuff even during the best of times. “You seem…upset about something.”

He looks on the verge of laughing but doesn’t seem very amused. “You could say that.”

“Why? I don’t understand. Am I doing something wrong? You seem more distant than usual. I mean not that you’re usually distant or something. You just seem separated from me right now. Emotionally. Is what I mean.” You always babble when you’re nervous. Now is no exception.

He’s silent for a long time. He takes a glass from the counter—carefully, despite the previous banging around—pouring water and then taking some sort of pill you’ve never seen before and downing it all.

“I think I’m done talkin’ about this for now.” And without another word he brushes past you, down into the basement.

If you were anyone else you’d let this be.

But you’ve long since accepted you’re not anyone else.

When you follow down a moment later, you see he’s already at his desk, scribbling on something you can’t see.

“Fiddleford.”

He ignores you.

“Fiddleford, please.”

Nothing.

“Fiddleford, I can see you’re angry about _something_.”

He throws down the pen. “Oh, well, you’re very observant, Ford, yes. A straight-up genius, aren’t ya?”

You freeze. You were expecting Fiddleford to be upset but not like this. The last time he was this hysterical was when you were arguing about his wife and son.

“You want to know why I’m so upset? Fine.” He slaps the paper he’s been scribbling on and you realize with a jolt that it’s your equation for the portal. “I can hardly understand _any_ of this.”

“What are you talking about, Fidds? You know you’re better at me in engineering.”

“That’s my point. I’m the best engineer alive but the equation on this paper? I can hardly read it much less understand it.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true, Fidds,” you say uneasily. “Come on, we can work out the first part together.”

But you know you can’t. You yourself can hardly read this.

“So,” he says simply. “Want to tell me how you actually worked this out?”

“It doesn’t matter, Fidds.”

“Yes, it does. And I don’t understand why you…you can’t _trust_ me.”

“No, no. It’s not like that. Fidds, listen to me—”

“I _have_ been listening to you, Stanford, and you need to start telling me what’s goin’ on. Where are these ideas comin’ from? Who are you WORKING WITH?”

He’s yelling so loud, you can’t even hear the accent in his voice anymore. You’re realizing several things. He’s not going to leave this alone until he gets some sort of explanation. And he _knows_ that you’ve been working with someone else.

But now that you’ve pushed him into telling you what’s wrong, you can’t seem to say a solitary thing.

“Don’t play the fool with me, Stanford. I’ve seen things. I…I don’t even want to talk about what sort of things I’ve seen. Moments where you aren’t yourself. Where you just get up in the dead of night, rantin’ and chantin’ to yourself. And I don’t know if this is some sort of split-personality or, or, a shapeshifter of some sort but you need to tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You recognize the emotion in his face now.

It’s fear.

Ironically, you were the one who didn’t want to tell Fiddleford even though Bill heavily advised it, “If I’m going in and out of your body it might be…well…a little disconcerting for him.”

You had shrugged it off. “He’s not going to notice.”

_Why_ had you shrugged it off though? It wasn’t that you thought he wouldn’t notice. Maybe you were scared of what he’d think. Maybe you were ashamed. But most likely, you wanted to be the genius communing with a higher power rather than him.

Now you’re clearly paying the price.

“Look…Fiddleford…I know this is going to sound a little hard to believe, okay? But I met a sort of muse. He’s from another dimension and he…well, he’s been helping me with the equations. But obviously he doesn’t move around like we humans do so he’s just been borrowing my mind for a while. My mind and my body.”

Fiddleford is backing up against his desk, his face some sort of amalgamation of terror and grief and fear rolled together.

“Fidds, _please_! Just listen to me, okay? Who I’m working with…he’s…he’s a good person. He’s only trying to help us and I need you to trust me on this, okay? Please? Just…just trust me. Do you trust me?”

You need him to trust you because he’s the only one left that does besides Bill. He’s all you have left besides your work which you’ve given up so much for.

“Stanford…”

For one terrible moment you think he’s going to ask you to choose. Between him and your life’s work. And you can’t choose between that. You don’t even want to know what you’d choose.

His shoulders sag. “I trust you.”

That’s all you need to hear. You pull him into your arms and it’s all you need to hear.

***

It wasn’t like this in the beginning.

In the beginning, you go to university and you feel so lost and alone in the world.

But then you turn to the boy next to you in engineering—who easily happens to be the best student in the entire class—and ask about how the hell he knows the answers to all these equations when even you don’t. And then you’re both talking, about late night science experiments and how you ended up in a backwards place like this. He’s here because his family couldn’t afford to send him anywhere better and you’re here because, well, you sort of fudge the answer and just say they were prejudiced because of your family’s roots. But you talk about other things. Better things. How you both want to change the world. How you’re both into the weirdest, nerdiest things that no one else is. He’s the only student from Georgia and you’re the only one with six fingers on each hand so while that both makes you freaks, it kind of makes you freaks together.

He’s the first friend, outside of Stanley, that you’ve ever had.

You’re not roommates the first year but every year after that you are. It’s amazing how well you two live together once you do, like you just know what the other one needs.

It’s when you’re in the third year that you start holding hands. Just brushes of each other’s fingertips in the outside world, but when you’re alone in your room or in a movie theatre together then you can hold hands and arms and shoulders and necks. Six fingers and five fitting together so perfectly.

And when you’re lonely, when you wake up and can’t explain to him where this loneliness comes from and why you’re so needy for affection, he gets out of bed and sleeps beside you and you feel safer, better, even though anyone could walk in and see you two.

“You know it can’t go on like this,” he whispers one night.

You’re on the verge of falling asleep so you’re not sure if you say it but your mind thinks it at least.

_Why not?_

***

There’s a reception happening back at the university, pretty much all for you and the prestige you’re bringing your school what with your nationally ranked thesis and huge grant. But you’re sitting here instead. A diner with buzzing lights and coffee-stained counters. Fiddleford sits across from you, nervously tapping his fingers together. You wish he’d stop doing that. You know what it means when he does something like that.

He says, “I’m getting married.”

This is not unexpected. He has had a girlfriend for two years whom he’s been “serious” with.

But still. It ruins everything. It ruins all of this day where you walked across a stage with honors, finally, _finally_ getting the credit you deserve. Your father watching you, proud. Your mother hugging you and you managing this time not to flinch away. Sure, there was an empty seat beside your mother and father, the place where Stanley was supposed to be but he’d been banned from New Jersey for some reason? It had been a good day regardless.

Now it isn’t. Now you’ll remember this day for only one reason.

You want to yell and scream and tear up the table. But you’re both good at not making a scene. You have to be.

“When?”

“Two months from now. June. I want you to be there.” He pauses for a fraction of a second. “I want you to be my best man.”

“That’s sick, Fidds.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks outside the cracked window. “I’m just tryin’ to think of you, Stanford.”

“If you were thinking of me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“I know you don’t understand.”

“You’re a lapsed Catholic, it’s not like you think you’re going to hell or something.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then _what_ is it about? It’s not like you love her.”

Fiddleford gives you a glare. “My God, Stanford, I knew you could be callous but this is a new low. Even for you.”

“Oh, I was supposed to be fine with this?”

“You were supposed to understand. You had to know where this was going once I started dating Susan.”

“You don’t love her.”

“No I don’t, Stanford. How very astute of you. But I’m marrying her anyways.”

“Why?”

“Because my family needs me to and I can’t keep avoidin’ questions of when I’m going to get a girlfriend or settle down.”

“You care that much what people think?”

“It’s not about what people _think_ , it’s about survival. It always has been. It always will be. I-I’m sorry, Stanford. Really. I am.”

“Fidds…”

“So, what will you two fine gentleman have to eat this evening?”

A look of annoyance crosses Fiddleford’s face. “Actually—”

“Actually, I was just leaving,” you cut in. “Thanks anyways.” You nod your head in Fiddleford’s completely broken-looking direction. “Fidds.”

He doesn’t try to stop you. You walk out of that building and into the party held in your honor like nothing is even different.

***

You’re alone again.

You focus on your work, as you’re so apt to do when no one else is there to bug you. Deciding to go to Gravity Falls only seems right now that you’re a freak no one else wants to associate themselves with.

You study more books. You observe all the oddities surrounding you. You start building the perfect place to make more extensive investigations.

It’s only once you’ve moved into your new house that you start getting the phone calls. Nighttime. Daytime. They never say who they are and they hang up once you say hello. You think about calling the police. But they’re not harming anybody. And you’re not sure they can trace such short calls.

Then one day you get a call. And this time, somebody speaks.

***

Your brother’s looking at you but he can’t see you. He’s smiling but you don’t think he’s very happy.

“Stanley?”

You don’t recognize those eyes. These can’t be the eyes that turned to you with a conspiratorial grin as a kid, that promised they’d always be there for you, that pleaded with you to help escape Pa’s wrath. These are the eyes of a stranger.

You turn to the doctor. “Why can’t he hear me?”

The doctor looks bored if anything. “He’s just come out of ECT so he may be a little confused for the next hour or so.”

“ECT?”

“Electroconvulsive therapy.”

“You’re shocking his _brain_?”

“I assure you, Mr. Pines, it’s perfectly safe. This may in fact cure him of his depressive tendencies though it’ll be a while yet till we find if that’s so. Tell me, Mr. Pines, does your family have a history of mental illness?”

How are you supposed to answer a question like that?

Your mother. She has problems, or at least she did when you still lived with her. “Sad days” she’d call it when she had trouble getting out of bed and couldn’t take any calls on the psychic hotline. You and Stanley tried not to bother her on those days. She’d also apparently taken a turn for the worse shortly after you and Stanley were born. Sherman let it slip once when you were little that she’d tried to swallow a whole bottle of pills.

She was also very superstitious. Feared the thirteenth and any black cats she came across. One time she woke you and Stanley during the middle of the night because she was convinced there were evil spirits roaming the house.

But was that a sign of mentally illness? Or just her brain trying to cope with an abusive husband?

And what about you? Maybe you and your brother aren’t as different as you previously imagined. You’re identical in nearly every physical way; the same brown eyes, the same smile, the same ambidexterity. Why wouldn’t you both suffer the same depressive tendencies?

“Mr. Pines?”

“No.” It’s none of his business, besides you aren’t even sure. “No, we have nothing like that in our family.”

The doctor looks dubiously at you. He looks about to say something else when Stanley starts stirring.

You focus your attention back on him as he blinks sleepily at you. “Stanley? Stanley, can you hear me?”

He stares at you but this time something actually seems to be lighting up behind those eyes. He reaches out his hand and you grasp onto it like a lifeline.

“Stanley? It’s me. Stanford. I’m here. I’m…I’m…” What are you supposed to say after nearly five years of separation? When you were kids you could hardly spend a night apart without feeling lonely. “I’m sorry.”

He looks at your hand and then back at you. His face seems confused. “Who are you?”

You jerk your hand away. “Stanley…”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know who you are.” He looks around the room. “I don’t know where I am. I want to go back. I want to go _back_!”

You aren’t exactly sure where “back” is. You’re also not entirely sure you want to know.

He’s getting rowdy, but the doctor’s quicker. Before you can even register it, he’s got out a needle which he injects into Stanley’s elbow. You notice with sickening horror that his entire elbow is dotted with marks.

His eyes roll back in his head and he’s out within seconds.

“Sorry about that,” the doctor says, not really sounding sorry. “Unfortunately Stanley does not have the calmest response to confusion. We usually keep him restrained after ECT but we were hoping today…”

You don’t want to know. You don’t want to be here anymore. You can’t understand how your brother actually is.

“I have to go tomorrow,” you say. It’s a lie. You don’t have anywhere you need to be.

“That’s a shame,” the doctor says. “Because we won’t be releasing him tomorrow and he needs to be released into his family when he is.”

Shit. “I’ll…I’ll get someone else.”

You turn around so quickly that you almost smash straight into a wall. Instead you stop and calmly say, “Whatever this hospital visit and these…treatments…cost, put it on my account. Stanley isn’t paying for it.”

You walk away as fast as you can without running.

***

It’s snowing outside and your fingers are so numb you have to punch in the numbers twice before the payphone starts ringing.

“You’ve reached the Psychic Pines H—”

“Ma, it’s me.”

“Stanley?”

“No. Stanford,” you cut in harshly. Of course she’d first think it was your favored twin over you.

“Oh, Stanford. I’m sorry. It’s just that you two sound so similar over the phone and Stanley hasn’t called in a while.”

“That’s because he tried to kill himself.” Maybe you’re still mad that she thought it was him calling over you but you convince yourself that she had to know sooner than later.

You regret it instantly. You can hear her gasp over the phone, trying to hold back tears as she says, “When? How?”

You go slower this time. More caring. “A couple of days ago, Ma. I’m sorry. I don’t…I’m not sure you really need to hear how—”

“Stanford. Tell me.”

Now you really wish you hadn’t said anything. “Well, uh, he, uh, he was staying at a friend’s place.”

“Who was the friend?”

“I don’t know. Something Sanchez. Look, the friend isn’t important. What’s important is that he was feeling down for a while and I guess that they had a fight or something so Stanley locked himself in the garage, turned on his car, and…”

Your mother’s silent.

“But his roommate found him in time,” you add on quickly. “Now he’s at the hospital and I need you to do me a favor.”

“Yes?”

“I need you to come here and get him out. They won’t let him out unless someone in his family is here with him.”

“Well, why can’t you do it, aren’t you there with him now?”

“Yeah, but I have to go soon.”

“What? Where?”

“I just have to leave, okay?”

“Honey, this is your twin brother we’re talking about. Surely this is more important than whatever else you’ve already got planned.”

You try to speak but all the words get tangled at the back of your throat.

“Well?”

And some sort of dam breaks where all you can strangle out is, “ _I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE_.”

There’s nothing but the empty buzz of the line.

You take another breath, try to explain, but explaining what you feel has never been your strong suite. “I…I can’t…see him like this. It’s not…he’s not…himself. And I…I can’t.”

“I understand,” Ma says quietly, more sympathetic towards you than you’ve ever heard her be before. “You go back home and I’ll be there in a few days. Get some rest, son. This isn’t going to last forever.”

You’re not entirely sure that last part is true but you let it slide. “I’ll call you tomorrow and give you the details. Could you, uh, not mention to Stanley I came to see him? I’m pretty sure he won’t remember.”

A long pause. “Okay, Stanford.”

“Ma?”

“Yes, son?”

“I love you.”

***

You throw yourself into your work like you never have before. Does Fiddleford now have a son? Just ignore it, just remember, you have to find out where the shapeshifter comes from. Has Stanley been arrested again in another state? It’s not your problem, just focus on finding those growth crystals.

And when answers are not forthcoming, when all you have is questions (Where is all of this strangeness coming from? Where does it all come _from_?), you just have to keep pushing, keep looking for answers.

A cave. A name. Bill Cipher. He can answer everything. You can finally know everything. Your six-fingered hand covers the endless warnings, the DO NOT SUMMON DO NOT—

You can’t have your mind filled with emptiness. You can’t have just memories of better times bumping around and grating on your nerves.

You speak the incantation aloud.

You dream.

You see things you never thought possible.

***

You’ll realize later how clever Bill really is. How he both flatters you and confirms all of your worst fears. You’re so misunderstood in this world, that’s why you’re so lonely, that’s why you need his help. He promises a world where you _will_ be understood, where everything will make sense. A bridge between his world and yours.

You agree.

You’re the one to suggest, not him, that he use your body to get things done faster. It’s so time-consuming to have to meet and discuss with him in the dreamscape that doesn’t it just make sense to let him go in and out as he pleases?

But still, you’ll need another pair of hands. You can’t build this portal on your own. But it’s Bill this time who suggests Fiddleford.

“I mean, he is supposedly the “greatest engineer of our time” as you termed it? He should be perfect for the job!”

You don’t even pause to reflect how strange that is, especially when he knows your shared history. You’re so happy. You’re so blinded.

You call Fiddleford the next day. He accepts almost immediately.

***

It’s like your two strangers dancing around each other those first few weeks. You just point to what you want him to do and he does it. Silently.

Eventually however, you start talking because he can’t keep his mouth shut when it comes to mistakes you make in machinations and you can’t help but smile at all the notes he keeps for himself in that looping handwriting of his. Pretty soon you’re back to joking and it’s only a small step from there before you’re both holding hands.

This is how you imagined your life. Just you and Fiddleford waking up every morning to explore the strange and unexplainable, to work on the portal, to laugh about whatever inane commercial Gravity Falls puts on. It feels like it could go on forever.

_No, it’s not_ , whispers in your ear when you least expect it. In the early morning, late at night. Brief breaks on the portal, editing your work in the third journal.

You remember Fiddleford’s unsuspecting wife. You remember his son, the one he can’t stop talking about, showing you pictures you of, smiling about at all points of the day.

_He’s going to have to return to them sometime._

“You worried about something, Stanford?” Fiddleford peers at you with concern.

“No.” You pinch the pinch of your nose. “Just tired is all.”

***

How could you ever be so stupid?

You should’ve been more careful, you should have made sure that both of you were safely behind the line before you tested out the portal for the first time.

But you don’t.

And everything changes.

There isn’t time for fear when Fiddleford floats up into the portal, just reaction. You’re pulling the rope and all of Fiddleford’s weight against yourself. _Please don’t let the rope break, please don’t let the portal shut off unexpectedly…_

And then a burst of relief as Fiddleford is flung back, along with you, safe. Alive. No injuries you can see.

The scientific part of your brain starts kicking in, “What is it? Is it working? What did you _see_?”

But it isn’t Fiddleford’s voice that speaks.

At least you don’t think it’s Fiddleford. You sure hope to whoever’s listening that it really isn’t Fiddleford.

Nonsense spews out of his mouths, pupils blown so wide you can see your own terrified reflection inside. It reminds you of Pa and being hit and _now’s not the time to think about things like this!_

Fiddleford. Focus on Fiddleford. He’s shaking. What the hell happened on the other side of the portal?

You say his name again but he ignores you. He’s sitting and you think he might actually be okay when he says with horror in his voice, “When Gravity Falls and earth become sky, fear the beast with just one eye.”

It sounds like more nonsense until Fiddleford mentions this “beast with one eye”. That sounds an awful lot like…

No.

“Fiddleford, get a hold of yourself! You’re not making any sense!”

You try to put your hand on your shoulder, just to comfort him, just to give him some bearing in reality, but he jumps back as if your touch physically burns him.

As if he hates you.

“This machine is dangerous,” he says, hysteria creeping into voice. “You’ll bring about the end of the world with this. Destroy it before it destroys us all!”

It’s not rhetoric, you can see the ultimatum that lies in his eyes: him or your work.

You never wanted this.

You never wanted _any_ of this.

It almost shames you how quickly you reply, “I can’t destroy _this_ , it’s my life’s work.”

Betrayal and pain lines Fiddleford’s face but it’s almost immediately consumed with terror. Whatever he’s seen there in the beyond must be something else. He mutters, “I fear we’ve unleashed a great danger on the world, one I’d just as soon forget. I quit!”

The words hit you like a large wave crashing onto the shore; not entirely unexpected but still painful. You can’t help but lash back, “Fine, I’ll do it without you. I don’t _need_ you. I don’t need anyone!”

He’s not listening, he’s already walking away.

***

By the time you calm down enough to have a rational thought of going after him, he’s already packing, stripping bare the house of his belongings.

You stand there and watch. After all, what are you really going to say? That you’ll choose him over your work? That you’re going to destroy the portal?

No.

His hands are shaking, he’s drops things once, twice, three times. He’s muttering something under his breath and it’s only through repetition that you realize it’s, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…” Crossing himself repeatedly with only the repetition of childhood practice, he pushes past you and heads to the door.

“Fiddleford, _please_ ,” is all you can get out in the end.

He doesn’t even break his stride, “Just leave me alone.”

You never see him again.

***

You give yourself a sedative because you’re not waiting for natural sleep to overtake you in order to talk to Bill.

Your mindscape appears, filled with the usual books and diagrams and calculations and, of course, Bill Cipher.

Before he can even say anything, you burst out with, “Bill, you lied to me. Where does that portal really lead?”

You’re desperately hoping he’s going to deny it. You’ve built your entire life around this portal and the thought of it being for nothing or worse, detrimental to the world, is too much to bear. But Bill doesn’t deny it. A strange mocking tone that you’ve never heard before starts creeping into his voice.

“Hoho, looks like Mr. Brainiac finally got smart. Let’s just say that when that portal finishes charging up, your dimension is gonna learn how to party.” He’s turns to a rift you haven’t noticed till now where faint, hideous shadows are pressed against it. “Right, guys?”

Roaring laughter fills the dreamscape. Fiddleford was right and you’ve gambled completely wrong. Some horror you didn’t realize you could feel starts pressing on your lungs.

“No, I’ll stop you. I’ll shut it down!”

“A deal’s a deal, _Sixer_.” Mocking. How could you have been so stupid as to have made a deal with _him_ in the first place? How could you have let him into all your memories, your thoughts, your weaknesses? “You can't stop a bridge between our worlds from coming, but it would be fun to watch you try! _Cute_ even!”

You wake up with a jolt, heart pounding in your chest, hands shaking.

The first thing you do is shut off the portal for good. But even thinking of destroying it hurts you more than you can bear. This is all you have left. All you have to show for your entire life. Even when it means absolutely nothing.

You’re starting to get an idea. You hope you and the world can survive long enough to enact it.

***

The week before Stanley comes to Gravity Falls is hell.

Every night is plagued by nightmares of Bill’s design. Every day is spent hiding from whichever creature Bill has possessed or summoned. Every single fear you have is dissected and explored. You see Fiddleford renounce his love for you endless times. You see Stanley at that hospital or, far worse, how you’ve imagined he got there. Sitting in his car, waiting to die. _Wanting_ to die. You see your father and you’re just a kid and it’s never going to _stop_.

You’ll admit you’ve had your paranoia in the past but it was never like this. Everything and everyone is an enemy. You’ve taken so many stimulants to try and keep yourself from dreaming that you can hardly tell what _is_ a dream anymore.

Then you hear the knock at the door.

It’s Stanley. You can relax because it’s Stanley and he’s here and you and the world can finally be—

But what if it’s not him? You had a nightmare a few nights ago, one where you thought Stanley had finally arrived until he’d stabbed you right in the gut and looked you in the eyes except they weren’t the brown eyes you knew but Bill’s golden ones.

“Miss me, Sixer?”

You peer at this “Stanley” carefully. “Did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?”

He ignores your questions and it’s too dangerous to wait any longer. You grab him with one hand and with the other you shine a light into his eyes. _Please don’t be gold, please don’t be gold, please don’t be_

Brown.

“Hey! What is this?”

He pushes you away, watching you warily, like you’re dangerous which you _aren’t_. This look of suspicious continues as you try to stutter out an explanation and then try to explain why he’s here. Up until you confide in him that you, “don’t know who you can trust anymore.” Suddenly, he’s all sympathy and calming words like he’s trying to still a spooked horse. Like you’re the one who’s visited the psych ward instead of him.

“Look, I’ve been around the world, okay? Whatever it is, I’ll understand.”

You’re pretty sure he won’t but you show him the portal and you’re getting nervous so you can’t even stop explaining as you see him growing more and more distant from you. He doesn’t understand, but you can’t stop now. You show him one of the journals, the last of your legacy, “I have something to ask of you: you remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?” His face lights up at the memory. Maybe, just maybe, this’ll work. “Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can. To the edge of the Earth! Bury it where no one can find it.”

You don’t understand why but his face suddenly turns cold. You’ve offended him in some way, like you’ve done a million times in the past, not even understanding how.

“That’s _it_?! You finally wanna see me after ten years, and it’s to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?”

He can’t see the danger you’re in, you have to remind yourself of that. “Stanley, you don’t understand what I’m up against. What I’ve been through.”

He cuts you off. “No, no. You don’t understand what I’ve been through! I’ve been to prison in three different countries! I once had to chew my way out of the _trunk of a car_! You think you’ve got problems?” You can see the pain wash over his face, the hard years taking their toll. A whole decade divides both of you after all and you realize the man in front of you is a stranger you know hardly anything about. Maybe you were wrong to even bring him here at all.

“Meanwhile, where have you been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods. Selfishly hoarding your college money, because _you only care about yourself_!”

His words hit you in the gut like no knife he could wield ever would. Selfish? When you’ve suffered so long and so alone in these woods? When you went out of your way to pay for his visit to the psych ward?

You’re so angry, you say the first thing that comes out of mouth, “I’m selfish? _I’m selfish_ , Stanley? How can you say that after costing me my dream school? I’m giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won’t even listen!”

“Well, listen to this: you want me to get rid of this book? Fine. I’ll get rid of it right now!”

He pulls out a lighter and goes to burn the book, to burn the only thing left you have of value in your entire life.

You grab at it, you yell at him, but he won’t let go so you tackle him and then he tackles you and the two of you are somehow fighting.

This is the first time you’ve ever fought before. You got enough violence from Pa as kids and besides, Stanley’s the physical one, not you. But you’re fighting now and it’s like you’re making up for all those happy years as kids. It’s like you and he are lashing out for all the grievances you blame each other for, a thrum building up in your head, louder and louder.

Stanley said once that either you’re hurting someone or else getting hurt yourself well damn if that wasn’t the truth. You were wrong to ever correct him otherwise.

Stanley’s tugging so hard on the journal, you fear it’s going to split in half.

“It was supposed to be us forever. You ruined my life!”

You’re so angry, you can barely get the words out, “You ruined your own life!”

You shove him away, hard. And you’re not thinking because if you were you’d know that the plate there is red hot.

Stanley’s back hits the plate and he lets out a scream of pain. It’s some sort of sick irony that not even Bill would dream up that it burns exactly where Pa burned you all those years ago. You feel sick inside. How you could do that to your brother? Stanley thought he was like Pa once but he was wrong. _You’re_ the one like Pa, there’s something wrong and sick inside of you. No wonder everyone stays away.

You nervously babble on, “Stanley! Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Are you all—”

Something blinding knocks you back. Blood chokes your mouth and you realize Stanley’s punched you.

You don’t fight back. You deserve this. You deserve all of this.

“Some brother you turned out to be,” Stanley snarls. “You care more about your dumb mysteries than your family?”

Trust no one.

You wrote that in one of your journals once but you never could have predicted how it’s come to shape your life.

Trust no one.

Not your Ma or Pa.

Not Fiddleford McGucket.

Not Bill Cipher.

Not even yourself.

And certainly not your identical twin brother, Stanley Filbrick Pines.

Trust no one.

All you do have is your mysteries.

Stanley steps forward. “Well, then. _You can have ‘em_!”

He shoves the journal finally back into your arms but something strange is going on. You’re floating up in the air and you start to realize the thrumming you’ve been hearing in your head isn’t just in your head. It’s the portal starting up again.

Trust no one.

You’re frantic and so is Stanley. You only have seconds. You throw the journal back at him just before you breach the barrier.

You hope he can figure out the rest.

***

Here’s what you remember:

The tug of a sail. The calmness that can suddenly descend over the bay. A long boardwalk filled with splinters.

A rainy day. A metal box. A car with scratches and nicks and a whole religion in between.

An explosion, both physically and mentally. A world you think you understand. People you think you do as well. Promises.

Trust no one.

The world on the other side is different and you quickly learn to adapt. But because of this, you’re wanted by a lot of people, a lot of places, a lot of governments. You hate that. Stanley’s supposed to be the criminal of the family, not you.

But you’re alive. That’s what counts, right?

Sometimes at night, before you doze off for a few brief hours of sleep, you remember all over again the things that have happened. The memories, once horrible reminders of the past, are now pieces of light you so desperately cling to in this strange land.

Sometimes you wonder what everyone’s doing now. Are Ma and Pa still alive? How old is Shermie’s son now? Do they think you’re missing? Dead?

And Stanley. If he’s smart, he’ll never turn on the portal again. But if he still cares about you, you’ll know he’ll hold nothing barred to get you back to your dimension.

You deliberate between the two. Most times you know Stanley should leave you here but when you’re feeling sentimental enough, you desperately hope he’s trying to get you back.

Trust no one.

But all you have left is trust.

You trust Stanley will get you home.

You close your eyes.

You dream about home.

**Author's Note:**

> So about a month ago my brother and I were discussing who our least favourite Gravity Falls character was and almost immediately we were both like, "lmao, Ford is such an asshole." Which made me think, hey, writing a fanfic from his perspective would be a great way to improve my writing skills! At first this was just meant to be Stanford's childhood and teen years but then I added in Fiddauthor because, dammit, everyone needs a little Fiddauthor in their life and then I wanted to explore a non-sexual, but still very disturbing, relationship between Bill and Stanford and somebody take this fic away from me already because Stanford's my son now and I love him so much and now I'm stuck in fandom hell for all eternity.
> 
> (I hope you enjoyed!)


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